


The Wall

by fawntaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawntaire/pseuds/fawntaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly did not cover the kitchen wall with chalkboard paint for this shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wall

Feuilly did not cover the kitchen wall with chalkboard paint for this shit. He and Jehan expected people to pick up the chalk and draw flowers, to doodle while waiting for the coffee to finish in the mornings, to use it for loving announcements of generous meals that will be prepared for dinner. It was supposed to be lively and edgy and, hell, convenient.

It definitely was not supposed to become another battleground for Enjolras and Grantaire to wage war. 

They’re not sure who had started it, really. Except that it was arguably, probably, most definitely Grantaire. But nobody will say that, of course.

Enjolras had written on the wall first. ‘Rally at the University Square tomorrow – 4:00 PM,’ it said.

‘Useless,’ had been added in someone’s messy scrawl beneath it.

Combeferre had stopped talking when they had entered the kitchen the next morning to find the cursive beneath his reminder. Enjolras had pulled his red cardigan over his hand and erased the writing with his sleeve.

And then comes the night of the announcement that Lamarque’s bill had been voted out. 

Enjolras scrawls something about injustices, but the importance of inspiration and the people’s perseverance. 

In the spaces between his words, Grantaire argues about the unwillingness of the people to ‘get off their lazy asses’ and get involved, pokes holes in the wording of the bill without reference, and ends his argument with the full lyrics of Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up. 

He also circles Enjolras’ unnecessary alliteration.

With his hands on his hips and a kettle screaming on the stove, Enjolras informs Grantaire that he, in fact, is the owner of one of those lazy asses.

“And a proud one at that,” Grantaire grins, and Enjolras’ face flushes with anger.

It doesn’t just stop at politics. Arguments sprout up about anything.

And yet they always end up back there, even if the argument had started about something as trivial as the better tasting brand of coffee. (Although, honestly, that particular argument might not have been started by either of them.)

The demanded sources often come later, in the form of index cards shoved under bedroom doors.

At one point, somebody had tried to ease the tension by drawing a rather large rendition of a cat. They were sure nobody had gone into the kitchen that night, and yet, not an hour later, over the poor creature’s face was written ‘DON’T INTERRUPT ME, CAT.’

Now none of their housemates or their friends can walk into the kitchen without seeing the massacre that is the chalkboard wall.

“That’s cold,” Musichetta remarks, when one day she sees a block of text, stretching practically from the ceiling to the floor. But parts of the speech have been erased, so that, standing far away, the groups of broken words read, ‘BULLSHIT.’

At least, their housemates reason, at least the halls are quieter. Since the establishment of the chalkboard wall as World War E and R, any arguments have been kept at significantly lower volumes. Often because the boys would tire themselves out scratching their points into their kitchen walls so hard you could hear their labored breaths.

And then one day, the chalkboard looks as though it has been furiously scrubbed away with the surface of two hands. A mess of fingerprints and blotches of smoky chalk hide behind a single fiercely outlined word, ‘STOP.’

And the next night, replaced with ‘WHY?’

 

Enjolras stands upon the raised platform like a god. His voice rings out, clear yet heavy. Every syllable that comes out of his mouth sounds important.

People on the street stop to listen to him. Grantaire feels hope itching at his fingertips, scratching itself into his rough palms. He wants them to be listening for the reason he listens. Selfishly, he thinks, he doesn’t want them to be watching him for the way Enjolras catches the eye.

Most of them fall away after a couple of sentences. Everyone is always busy with this, or with that. They don’t have time to spare for a man and his dreams for mankind. But some stay. Some linger.

And Grantaire knows, as always, that is enough for him to continue.

Grantaire can’t watch him doing it again, not this time. For some reason, this time feels different and Enjolras looks right at him and he can’t help it. He tears his eyes away from the boy’s and slips his way out of the crowd. 

 

The boys come home exhausted, in the dead of night. A night at the pub followed the hopeful rally and they had at least swept up two souls in the madness, who were willing to listen to their points even as they became more slurred by the minute.

Most of them retreat to their rooms immediately, dragging their feet across the ground, abandoning scarves and coats as they move.

Enjolras turns into the kitchen, squinting against the harsh light, to try for some honey and lemon to soothe his throat.

As he waits for the kettle to squeal, he leans against the counter, his arms crossed before him. He faces the chalkboard, chewing at the side of his lip.

No messages wait for him there. Grantaire had slipped away in the middle of his words. He didn’t come to meet them afterwards. Nobody had spoken about his absence, at least not to him, and Enjolras can understand why.

Except that now he has something to say. He reaches forward and plucks a small bit of chalk from the mug. He raises a hand and tugs his curls from his eyes.

“If I love you, I have to make you conscious of things you don’t see,” and because Enjolras can’t take credit for the quote, not even accidentally, “– James Baldwin.”

He drops the mug and stares at the quote, written neatly in the middle of the wall. For a moment he stares, doubting himself more than he has ever. He raises his hand to erase it.

He jumps when the kettle flips its lid behind him.

He turns to pour his tea instead.

 

Grantaire knows there’s something deeper he should be looking at here. He should be looking at the point that the quote makes, that the arguments come out of Enjolras’ need to make him understand things he really doesn’t want to. But the wording of it; he can’t get past that first bit. He’s trying and he shouldn’t be reading this much into it, but he can’t and he is.

It’s not fucking fair that he would do that. How insensitive can that asshole be?

In his rage and confusion, the first thing he says to Enjolras when he walks into the kitchen that day is, “What the hell?”

Enjolras takes a moment to look back at the wall behind him. His face clouds over with some kind of indignant recognition.

“Well, you weren’t listening to my words,” Enjolras snaps, “I thought somebody else’s might actually make their way to you.”

“’If I love you,’” he repeats, dumbfounded, and Enjolras is all the angrier.

“Yes!” he says, seizing up his hands flying animatedly, “I want you to be able to see that there is more injustice in this world, more things that actually matter and need to be taken care of, not—“

“Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps, stepping forward, “I don’t need you to explain to me your goddamn savior complex, I’m looking to know why you chose that quote.”

Enjolras’ face reddens with rage now. “You know why,” he hisses.

Grantaire spits out some kind of sarcastic laughter, shaking his head at the man before him. “Oh, I know why. And you’re a fucking asshole for doing it.”

“What?” Enjolras blinks, his brow furrowed.

“You’ll say anything to make a fucking point, won’t you?” Grantaire accuses and Enjolras twists his lip.

“No,” he says, “That _is_ the point.”

“So what the hell are you saying then? You love me?”

“N-no!” Enjolras stammers, “No, goddamnit, I— I mean, you’re–“

Grantaire jumps to cut him off before he can say whatever insult he has forming in his mouth.

“You’re at quite the loss for words, Apollo,” Grantaire sneers, shaking his head at the man’s red face, “That’s a first, isn’t it?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. He just stands there, gritting his teeth, staring Grantaire in his face. His chest is heaving and his nails are digging into his palm with the way his fists are balled. Then, he scoffs and shakes his head.

There’s something like a glint of tears in Enjolras’ eyes, if Grantaire would be so bold as to think of them that way. 

“Fuck. You.” Enjolras says.

Everyone else is either on the steps, or listening from their doorframes when the quiet comes.

“Go on then, Apollo,” Grantaire sneers as Enjolras turns, pushing hard past Bossuet and Courfeyrac, “Walk away.”

The sound of Enjolras’ stomps echo across the floors, all throughout the house, until they culminate in the startling sound of a slamming door. Grantaire feels the vibration of the sound right into his chest.

Nobody else dares to move. 

Courfeyrac is staring red-faced at Grantaire. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and follows right after Enjolras.

Combeferre is the first to step into the kitchen. He marches right up to Grantaire, towering above him with that quiet might that he has never turned against Grantaire. Not until this moment.

“You have no right,” Combeferre says to Grantaire, even and soaked with rage.

“ _I_ have no right?” Grantaire snaps incredulously.

“To expose him like that,” Combeferre says, “You know how he feels about you and you threw it right in his face. Made fun of him in front of the whole house.”

“I didn’t do anything, he’s the one who knows how I feel and he’s the one that…” Grantaire trails off, his brows furrowed, his breath heaving as he looks up at Combeferre. “Wait, how he feels about me?”

“You know he loves you,” Combeferre snaps, “and he had the courage to write it right up there and you stood right here two seconds ago, tearing him apart for it.”

Grantaire feels like someone’s just poured a bucket of ice water down his back. What did Combeferre say? He must be mistaken, he’s got it wrong, somebody has to correct him. But Jehan is standing directly behind Combeferre, his arms crossed, watching sadly. 

Grantaire feels all of him sink.

“No, that was,” Grantaire shakes his head, his lips flapping helplessly, “He wrote that to taunt me. I’m the one that’s been in love with him forever, he’s not…” Grantaire trails off, his head reeling, the feeling of nausea in his stomach reminding him of some darker days past. He pulls his hands through his curls, once and then twice, and Combeferre’s stance softens.

“You didn’t know,” Combeferre says slowly, and Grantaire is so dizzy he has to rest himself against one of the counters.

“He was making fun of me,” Grantaire breathes, like it’s hard to.

“You idiots,” Combeferre shakes his head, “You goddamn idiots.”

 

Grantaire’s not sure what else to do at home. Every second feels like walking on eggshells. So, he leaves to walk the streets of Paris.

He ends up where he’s always felt comforted—wandering the aisles of the art supply store. He runs his hands along the rows of paints and touches the bristles of brushes. When he was younger, when he made a mistake, his sister would bring him here. She would treat him to just one thing, because it was one thing she could afford.

He decides he could get himself that one thing, just this once.

He leaves, before he realizes he has even made a choice, with a gold chalkboard marker. 

But instead of going home, he finds himself opening the door to the studio. He sits in front of an empty easel, weaving the marker between his fingers, and thinks. Or tries to, anyways. 

The light changes against the canvas in an amount of time that feels much too short for Grantaire. The sky is dark when he turns, his brows furrowed, his lips parted. He hadn’t even noticed that he was tired, that sleep called for him, until he looks out the window. Rubbing a thumb against his eyelids, he drops the marker and reaches for his phone.

A couple of texts from the people at the house. He ghosts his eyes over them and, in the end, only really reads one from Eponine. 

It says, ‘Go the fuck home.’

 

It’s a while until he makes it back there, the marker shoved in his pocket and the house empty as anything.

Nobody is in the kitchen and the chalkboard has been wiped so clean not even chalk dust remains on it. 

And despite the canvas left untouched at the studio, Grantaire cannot let this one stay clean. He pulls off his coat, settles himself on the floor, and grabs the mug full of chalk. 

He works until the sun threatens to tear through the horizon, lighting the kitchen in a low blue. The pieces of chalk are barely stubs now, save for the colours that Grantaire had left untouched.

They didn’t belong in this piece.

He reaches up and stretches his back, placing the mug back at the corner of the board as quietly as he can.

Grantaire scrawls on the back of an unused index card, “I’m sorry.” He almost writes ‘I didn’t know’ or ‘I feel the same’ or ‘For everything’ on it, but he can’t decide on what needs to follow the apology. Instead, he signs it with a simple R in the gold chalk and shoves the card under Enjolras’ bedroom door on his way to bed.

 

The next day, when Enjolras walks into the kitchen, the chatting is quiet and hurried. It isn’t particularly loud and it isn’t like any other morning.

And everyone is staring at him and it’s embarrassing as shit. 

Then he turns to see why. The chalkboard that Combeferre had wiped clean for him the night before now was background to a masterpiece.

A scruffy, curly haired man holds a blindfold in his hands. He’s on his knees, squinting up at the figure towering before him. A man with a burning golden sun behind his head. Only a silhouette, but unmistakable nonetheless.

He stares at it with his dry eyes, his red nose, his throat still knotted tight.

Somebody asks him very quietly if he would like it erased.

He stares a couple beats longer. “No,” he decides, quiet as a mouse, “Leave it be.”

 

With the end of the war comes the use of the chalkboard for the actual purpose it was meant. But the drawing remains untouched for weeks. Grocery lists are scrawled around it, little reminders of doctor’s appointments and the occasional song lyric, but nobody dares go near the man and his sun. 

In the end, three weeks after the fight that silenced them, Grantaire is the one to erase his own masterpiece, much to Enjolras’ disappointment. He misses it when it goes, even though he had more than a few photos of it on his cell phone, things he had taken whenever he had the kitchen to himself, just in case it were to disappear one day, as it has. 

Barely five hours after the drawing has been wiped, once everyone has gone to bed, or at least retreated to their rooms for the night but the two of them, Grantaire writes something in that empty space.

Grantaire stares at the words for so long, thinking about if this is the way to go or if he’s just being stupid as usual. He stares at them so long he’s not sure if they’re real or if he had actually written them. The thing that breaks him out of his stupor is the sound of Enjolras’ door opening, the familiar clinking of a spoon in a mug following soon after.

He doesn’t escape in time; damn that boy and his long legs, making walking distances much shorter than they would be for Grantaire. They meet at the entrance to the kitchen and Grantaire can’t even look up at Enjolras. 

Before he can say anything, Grantaire says, “Good night.”

He practically feels Enjolras’ shoulders slump. He replies in a quiet defeated whisper, “Good night.”

Grantaire just barely brushes shoulders with him, feathers the heel of his hand against Enjolras’ as he leaves the kitchen, his eyes dropped to the hot milk in his hand. 

Enjolras’ eyes are sore and tired from staring at his laptop for upwards of four hours straight, but when he blinks at the chalkboard his vision clears. 

‘Go on a date with me, Apollo.’

Enjolras’ grip tightens around the handle of his mug. He looks vaguely back behind him, feeling the ghost of Grantaire’s hand where he had brushed it. But he’s left him alone in the kitchen again.

Enjolras stares at it as he crosses the kitchen. He stares as it as he rinses his cup, as he starts up another pot, as he waits for it to brew. Finally, he moves towards it, feeling light as a feather.

Enjolras pulls the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand and erases the words. In its place, with a shaking hand, he writes a single word. 

The cleanest, neatest ‘Okay.’

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this document saved for over a year now, half-finished. Now it's finally finished! I hope you enjoyed it, let me know if you guys notice any mistakes.


End file.
